“Aye, and for that alone I am eternally grateful.” He helped her out of her clothes and tucked her under the blankets before snuffing out the candles. “Dinna forget that because of your ancestry, you are gifted in ways that will help our clan.” Robley undressed and slid under the covers to draw her into his arms.
“True. I’m glad for that.” Just then her baby turned, and she sensed their growing link. Somehow, she knew her son was smiling. The sound of Haldor’s laughter echoed through their chamber, and the slight scent of rain haunted her senses. “Did you hear that?” Erin propped herself up on her elbows.
“Aye, but I’d prefer to pretend otherwise.” Robley drew her back down. “In-laws,” he huffed. “I would prefer those of a mortal bent, but as long as I ken Haldor will see to your safety, I can tolerate his presence.” He wrapped his arms around her. “From a distance, that is,” he called out into the darkness.
Once again the sound of laughter resounded, fading as if her ancestor were moving away from them. “So be it.” Erin sighed, stretched and snuggled up against Robley’s warmth, content to be home for good.
Read on for a sneak peek of Barbara Longley’s next novel of Loch Moigh.
Available 2015 on Amazon.com
THE HIGHLANDER’S FOLLY
Hunter! How fortuitous that our paths should meet thus. Long have I yearned to lay eyes upon you.” The old crone’s dark eyes gleamed, and a cunning smile lit her wrinkled face.
Hunter’s blood rushed through his veins. His ears rang, and sweat beaded his brow. “Madame Giselle.” He made her a slight bow. “I suspect luck had no part in our meeting this day.” She cackled as he dismounted, and trepidation sluiced through him. Hunter tied Doireann’s reins to a low-hanging pine bough and turned to face her. Masking his expression, he did his best to hide the fear and revulsion her presence elicited.
He wanted no part of the unnatural association he had with the fae. Gladly would he give up the gifts bestowed upon him if it meant severing the ties of kinship that bound them.
“You have naught to fear from me, grandson.”
Was that hurt he spied flashing through her eyes? He’d gotten his abilities to read others from her. Surely she’d be aware of everything he felt and thought.
“Come in.” She beckoned with a gesture and preceded him into the tent. “I wish only to spend a bit of time with you.” She cast him a glance over her shoulder. “Mayhap I’ll tell your fortune whilst you’re here.”
“Nay.” He ducked to enter, his glance darting around the interior. A trunk sat to one side, and rushes covered the hard-packed ground. In the center, a roughly hewn table and two chairs had been set. A teapot and two mugs next to a deck of cards drew his attention. “I dinna need you to tell my fortune or my future, Madame Giselle. By my will alone do I forge my future, and by my sweat and blood do I earn my fortune.” She cackled again, and his muscles tensed for flight.
“By whose blood? Thanks to me, none can touch you with mere weapons of steel.” She took a seat at the table. “Are you so certain of what the future holds for you, my lad?”
“Aye.”
“Mayhap the path you’ve laid for yourself leads you astray.” She shrugged. “’Tis possible fate has other plans in store for you.”
“I am a knight, and I have made a vow which I intend to keep. Indeed, everything that I have worked toward these five years past has to do with keeping that promise.” In fact, he’d spent the whole of his life attempting to live up to the faith and expectations placed upon him by his foster family and clan. Their approval and high esteem meant everything to him. He owed them his life and his loyalty.
“I ken your true identity and what you are.” He remained standing, his posture rigid. “I suspect you are aware of the intentions I made clear the day Sky Elizabeth was born. Think you to alter my path or to induce me to renege?” He raised an eyebrow and sent her a pointed look. “I willna. What is it you want from me this day?”
“Aye. I’m well aware of the vow you made as a mere lad of five years. Sit.” She gestured to the chair across from hers. “Have some tea. You are my kin.” She canted her head and studied him. “Is it so beyond the realm of possibility that I wish only to spend a bit of time in your company? I have not seen you for far too long . . . in the flesh, anyway. The Tuatha have hearts not unlike those of mortals. We too bear affection for our progeny, whether they accept it or not.”
His eyes widened, and a sliver of guilt wedged its way into his heart. He had intended to thank her for saving his life, and he’d done naught but posture defensively. “My apologies if I have offended you. For certes I have you to thank for my life, and I am grateful.” He bowed to her again and sat down.
“Hmm.” Her eyes filled with a triumphant glint, and her face creased with amusement. “Then you will not be averse to doing me a small favor in return?”
“Och!” He plowed his fingers through his hair, his position suddenly untenable. “I am no match for you, Madame Giselle. What is it you wish of me?” Apprehension sent his heart racing again.
“Restore balance.” She shrugged. “Make right a wrong of old.”
“Is that all,” he bit out in a dry tone.
She laughed, only this time the sound was less a cackle and more melodious. Tiny bumps raised upon his flesh. “If you please, dinna shift your appearance. I canna abide your true mien. I will admit I fear you in your fae form. ’Tis no’ of this world.” Hunter said.
“As you wish, my lad.” Her smile softened. “I do not want you to fear me. I wish only the best for you, and I hope one day you will see the veracity of that for yourself.” Her expression turned inward as she scrutinized him. “You are so like him—so much like the mortal man I wed. It does my heart good to look upon you.”
He squirmed in his chair and gripped his mug with both hands. “The favor?”
“Ah, yes.” Her gaze sharpened. “’Tis a small thing, really.”
Frustration overwhelmed him. For certes this favor would delay his homecoming or inconvenience him greatly in some unforeseen way. God’s blood, he hoped it did not involve time travel! Too well he kent the havoc ’twould wreak upon his well-laid plans. His entire being rebelled at the thought, and mortification burned a path through his very soul. He had been so easily manipulated, and now he was truly caught up in her machinations. “What must I do to make right this wrong that in no way involved myself in its inception?”
“Ha!” She shook with mirth. “Trust your instincts, Hunter, and leave the rest to me.”
“I dinna wish to leave my time, madam. Do I have your assurance that this favor involves the present, and no’ some distant future or past?”
“Grandson, you must learn to give up your false sense of control. Your fate, no matter how you will it otherwise, is already written in the stars by another’s hand.” She rose from her place and pointed toward the rear flap of her tent. “Go now, and have faith. You are my kin. You will always hold my deepest affection.”
May the saints preserve me! He didn’t want her affection. Hadn’t he learned long ago the trouble such affection had caused his kin—both MacKintosh and MacConnell? He clung to the notion, no matter how false Giselle deemed it, that he did indeed control the course of his life. Hadn’t he proved it these five years past? He rose, and a sickening dizziness overtook him. Pressure assaulted him from all sides, pulling and pushing all at the same time. “Nay! Dinna send me—”
“This way.”
Giselle shoved him through the rear door of her tent into a rending vortex so powerful he feared he would not survive. For certes he would be torn to bits! God’s blood, the pain was enough to make him weep. Trapped in the center of the forces hurtling him forward, all he could do was grit his teeth and pray.
Just when he thought he could not bear another second, whatever held him spat him out, and he landed with a thud. Prostrate on the ground w
ith the tent still at his back, Hunter shook his head in an attempt to free himself of the disorienting dizziness that held him in its grip.
The sound of steel upon steel fell upon him where he lay. God’s blood! He’d landed in the midst of a battle! He raised his head, shock and the will to survive restoring his wits in a rush. Spectators ringed the combatants, booing and cheering them on. Some were dressed like he was, and others wore garments not unlike those Lady True wore when hunting. As he regained his feet, Hunter glanced toward the combatants. His vision went red with rage.
A large knight attacked a younger knight half his size and less than half his weight. Still, the lad acquitted himself well against the brute. He must have just earned his spurs, because he could not be more than ten and seven or eight years. Hunter straightened just as the youth tripped over an exposed tree root and fell flat on his back. The larger knight gave a shout of glee and moved in for the kill.
“Nay,” Hunter shouted as instinct took over. With a battle cry, he drew his claymore and lunged forward, blocking the blow meant for the lad. Straddling the youth where he lay on the ground, Hunter engaged the blackguard. “Coward! Knave!” In a flurry of strikes, he beat the man back. “If you wish for a fight, let me accommodate you.”
“Who are you?” The knight parried his blows with ease. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Upholding my vow to protect those weaker than myself, as you ought.” The familiar sense of anticipation flowed between the knight and him, and he blocked the blows coming at him.
“Wait!” The youth clambered back and leaped to his feet. “Stop!”
But it was too late. He was in the throes of battle lust, and he had no cause to cease that he could see. Hunter attacked, slicing through the knight’s chain mail to draw first blood, leaving a gash across the man’s shoulder. His opponent hissed in pain and faltered. Hunter took advantage, sending the man’s sword flying out of reach.
Screams erupted from the crowd. Men bearing arms surged forward. Hunter gripped the lad’s wrist and dashed toward Giselle’s tent. He tossed his charge through the entrance first and dove in after him.
Giselle stood by the tent’s opposite exit. “Hurry! Through here.” She held the flap aside.
The young knight struggled to get past him. Once again Hunter gripped his wrist. “That way is no’ safe, ye wee fool.”
He struggled to free himself from Hunter’s grip. “You don’t understand. Let me go!”
“Be off,” Giselle commanded. “Go before they come through after you.”
Hunter’s gaze went between the panicked face of the lad and Giselle’s imploring look. Indecision seized him. “Call 911!” The roaring shouts grew closer. “Stop him! Get him!”
The sounds of pursuit spurred him to act. Grabbing the lad around his waist, he dashed through the tent’s front opening. Once again the debilitating force took hold, hurling them both through a bone-crushing tunnel that tore at his limbs and propelled them forward. The ground rushed up to meet them, and the lad let out a cry as they came to a sudden and painful halt.
“We must be away,” he shouted, pushing himself to his feet. He helped the youth up and lifted him atop his mount. Hunter snatched Doireann’s reins from the tree and swung up behind his ward. Spurring his destrier into a full gallop, he wended his way through the wagons, booths and tables, heading toward the hills as if chased by the devil himself.
He topped the first rise and urged his horse onward to the bridge across the Esk. They raced over the cobbles, Doireann’s steel-shod hooves raising a thunderous clatter. Finally they were upon the slope of the hill where his men awaited him on the other side.
“You moron!” The lad wriggled as if he meant to leap from the horse’s back in mid-gallop.
“Moron?” He encircled the fool’s waist, lest he injure himself trying to get free. “I just saved your life.”
“No you didn’t.” He tried to pry free of Hunter’s hold. “I didn’t need saving.”
About the same time the swell of breasts atop his forearm registered, along with the slender curve of a feminine waist where it met the slight flare of hips, the cap upon his captive’s head blew off in the wind. A wealth of silken auburn tresses cascaded down across his chest and arms, and a sweet floral scent filled his nose.
He was a she.
“Bloody hell!” That made the attack against her even more foul. He checked over his shoulder for any signs of pursuit and saw none. Hunter reined his horse to a stop.
She turned to glare daggers at him. “Take me back.”
Now that he got a closer look at her, he wondered how he could have mistaken those comely features for that of a lad. She had wide-set dark-brown eyes, framed in thick lashes. A sprinkle of freckles covered the bridge of her finely wrought nose and cheeks. Her mouth—wide with full, ripe lips—drew into a straight line of displeasure at his perusal.
He stared, disconcerted. “I saved your life. You wish to be returned to the cur who attacked you?” He scowled, taking his arm from around her waist. “Why are you dressed as a knight? You’ve no business wearing chain mail or spurs. None. What manner of lass are you to wield a broadsword thus?” He dismounted, reaching up to help her down.
She batted his hands away, swung her leg over his mount’s back and slid free to land lightly upon her feet. “How is anything about me your business?” She widened her stance and crossed her arms in front of her. “Take me back where you found me right now, or you will regret it.”
He already regretted it. “Think you to threaten me?” He grunted and pointed at his chest. “I am a blooded knight and undefeated in battle. What harm can a wee lass do to me? You’ve no right to carry a broadsword, much less to wield it. No. Right. Do ye no’ ken ’tis a crime to impersonate a knight of the realm? You should be—”
She let out a growl of frustration and whipped around so fast she became a blur. Her booted foot connected with the center of his chest, sending him reeling back. Before he could regain his balance, she crouched low and swung her leg behind his heels to trip him. He went sprawling.
Bloody hell! Somehow she’d managed to wrest the dirk from his belt in the process. With her boot once again planted firmly upon his chest, she pressed the point of his dagger against his throat. He seethed. Humiliation and anger fought for dominance within him.
“No mere woman can defeat a big, strong knight such as yourself, eh?” Her brown eyes flashed. “Well, score one for the wee lassie.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank the wonderful folks at Montlake Romance for giving this trilogy a home, and especially JoVon Sotak and Jessica Poore for their support and enthusiasm. I also want to thank Nalini Akolekar, my wonderful agent. I so appreciate having you in my corner. I want to give a nod to Midwest Fiction Writers and Romance Writers of America. If it had not been for these organizations, I wouldn’t have had the opportunities I’ve had. Nothing compares to being in the company of other writers!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 ADannette
As a child, Barbara Longley moved frequently, learning early on how to entertain herself with stories. Adulthood didn’t tame her peripatetic ways: she has lived on an Appalachian commune, taught on an Indian reservation, and traveled the country from coast to coast. After having children of her own, she decided to try staying put, choosing Minnesota as her home. By day, she puts her masters degree in special education to use while teaching elementary school. By night, she explores all things mythical, paranormal and newsworthy, channeling what she learns into her writing.
Ms. Longley loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website, www.barbaralongley.com, Twitter @barbaralongley or on Facebook, www.facebook.com/barlongley.
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